


our eyes fighting the light

by abovetheruins



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4021033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ogre retaliates against Jim - by going after Oswald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our eyes fighting the light

**Author's Note:**

> This idea would not leave my head so I finally had to give in and get it down. This is my first time writing for this fandom and this ship, so hopefully I didn’t do too bad a job of it. Dismisses the Ogre/Barbara storyline completely, so it’s basically an AU of 1x19 – 1x21? Or something. Title from ‘Eyelids’ by Pvris.

Jim’s so entrenched in the Ogre case – and still reeling from almost being run down in a goddamn alley by the guy – that at first he doesn’t even notice Cobblepot’s henchman shuffling into the police station. He’s kind of hard to miss, though, sticks out like a sore thumb with his size. Harvey notices him first, cuffs Jim’s shoulder and gestures toward the door.

“Hey, isn’t he part of Penguin’s crew?” he asks, and Jim glances distractedly away from the file in his hands – another of the Ogre’s victims, her chest and throat littered with stab wounds – to see who Harvey’s referring to.

He recognizes the man from Cobblepot’s club – Gabe, he thinks? – and grits his teeth. He doesn’t have time to deal with Cobblepot’s particular brand of crazy, not now when he’s got so much else on his plate, a police commissioner out to get him killed and a serial killer on the loose, Lee in danger because of his involvement on top of all that.

He pushes his chair back with a scrap of metal on concrete and tosses the file on his desk; better to see what Cobblepot wants now (or drag him by the lapels out of the station; he’d _told_ the gangster to stay away from the GCPD, made it clear he wasn’t welcome there.)

For a moment he wonders if Cobblepot’s come to call in on his favor, grinds his teeth at the prospect of bending to the gangster’s will for _anything_ , until he gets closer to Gabe and notices that Cobblepot’s not even there.

“What do you want?” he barks as soon as he’s within hearing distance, a little confused as to why Cobblepot’s henchman is here but the man himself is nowhere to be seen.

Gabe stuffs his hands into his pockets – Jim tenses on instinct – and looks unaccountably nervous. “Boss is missing,” he says, glancing around the station as if Cobblepot could possibly be there, and Jim’s brows raise of their own accord.

“Missing?” he repeats, a little shortly because he does _not_ have time for this. “What do you mean ‘missing’?”

“He’s disappeared,” Gabe says. “Had me escort his mother home from the club the other night and I haven’t seen him since. Won’t answer his cell, can’t get a hold of him.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jim says, only half-listening. The more time spent away from his desk and the files piled atop it, the less chance they have of catching the Ogre.

Gabe looks unconvinced; he shoots a surreptitious look around the station, like he’s checking for anyone who may be listening, and Jim takes note.

“What is it?” he asks, his impatience rising the longer Gabe takes to respond.

“Boss was making plans,” Gabe finally says. “Big plans. Wouldn’t disappear in the middle of something like that. Something’s up, Detective.”

“Look,” Jim says exasperatedly, just wanting to get rid of the guy so he can get back to the matter at hand. “I’ll keep a look out for your boss, okay? But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll turn up.”

The henchman doesn’t seem sure, but he nods his head and takes his leave, and Jim sighs out a rough breath. He’s more concerned with these “plans” of Cobblepot’s than the possibility of him actually being missing, but he hasn’t got time to wonder what the man is up to. He’s sure the gangster will show up somewhere, probably a little bruised and bloody (god knows he’s got no shortage of enemies in this city) but no more worse for wear.

He doesn’t have time to ponder over it for long; Harvey’s found something, a name – Constance Van Groot, and they’re out the door within seconds chasing down the lead.

//

They find the Ogre’s father, find a name – Jason – and a hunch on Jim’s part leads them to the clinic where the first victim had worked – the clinic where the Ogre had gone under the knife and come out with a brand new face. All it leaves them with is a decade-old sketch that will do little to help them actually catch the man, and Jim stares down at it with a locked jaw and eyes that burn from lack of sleep.

“We’re not gonna find him tonight, Jim,” Harvey says, covering a jaw-cracking yawn with the palm of his hand. “Get some sleep. Eat something.”

“I can’t.” He can’t stop thinking of Lee, safe and sound in the precinct for now but still in danger, and all of those other girls, their hearts skewered, throats slashed. They’re so _close_ to catching this guy, Jim can feel it, and to come up against a brick wall after what had seemed at first like a breakthrough in the case leaves him mired in frustration and guilt and agitation. He couldn’t sleep even if he tried, not like this.

“Jim,” Harvey starts, but it’s cut off by the shrill ringing of Jim’s cell. He digs it out of his pocket, glances at the ID – unlisted number – and feels his stomach drop, the Ogre’s insistent voice in his ear: “ _Keep on your present course and I **will** kill someone you love. This is your only warning._ ”

He brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Detective Gordon,” a familiar voice answers, and Jim’s eyes harden, his stance stiff. Harvey notices, doesn’t ask questions, just calls for a trace that Jim knows will be pointless – the Ogre’s too meticulous, won’t be caught that way.

“What do you want?” Jim grits out between his teeth, and the short chuckle that filters into his ear has his fingers clenching around the phone.

“I already told you what I want,” the Ogre – Jason – answers. “You were disinclined to give it to me, so now you’ll have to face the consequences.”

Jim stills. Lee’s in the precinct, he’d made sure of it. The Ogre wouldn’t try and sneak his way in, would he?

“You stay away from – “ he starts, only to clamp his lips shut. He won’t give the Ogre the satisfaction of catching him off guard, making him slip up.

“It’s a little too late for that.” There’s a sudden burst of noise over the line – shuffling, followed by a low whimpering sound that stops Jim in his tracks.

“J-Jim,” croaks a voice, one that Jim would recognize anywhere if only because he just couldn’t seem to escape it, a voice that should have been silenced the moment he’d tossed its owner into Gotham’s frigid river, the voice that had called him “old friend” and “the only honest man in Gotham.”

“Cobblepot?” he says, stricken dumb from surprise or relief – because it’s not Lee, it’s _Cobblepot_ , why is it Cobblepot? – or something else entirely.

“It’s a first for me, I have to admit,” Jason continues, and in the background Jim can hear a rough exhalation followed by a pained cry. His fingers tighten on the phone without his say-so. “He’s not to my tastes, personally, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ve always been able to adapt, you know?”

“What do you want?” There’s a sour taste in Jim’s mouth, a prickling in his fingertips, the prelude to something he can’t quite name.

“Ah, ah, Detective,” Jason mocks. “We’ve gone over this. You should feel privileged that I’m even giving you advanced notice after you disobeyed my order. I hope you’re very pleased with yourself.”

“Listen, you son of a bitch – “ he starts, only to be cut off by the dial tone. Harvey’s shaking his head before Jim’s even put down his cell; the trace was unsuccessful, though that’s no surprise.

“He has Cobblepot,” Jim says; he can hear the surprise and the confusion in his own voice, as well as an undertone of… something. Anger, he thinks, fingers curling into fists at the remembrance of that cultured, mocking voice. Definitely anger. He doesn’t think about the cry that had filtered over the line, the way Cobblepot had whimpered his name.

“He has _who_?” Harvey asks, his voice a pitch higher. “The Penguin? _Why_?”

Jim shakes his head, slumps into his chair, running tired fingers over his face. “I have no idea,” he mutters, staring through the gaps in his fingers at the floor. He doesn’t think about Cobblepot’s voice. He doesn’t.

//

He can’t eat. He can’t sleep.

Lee keeps throwing worried looks at him when she thinks he can’t see, tries to get him to eat. Harvey doesn’t bother with subtlety, staring at Jim outright and asking him more than once what the fuck is wrong with him.

“He’s a criminal, Jim. They both are. Whether one takes out the other or they both end up killing each other, who cares? Either way there’s one less piece of scum slinking around the city.”

Harvey’s right, Jim knows. It shouldn’t matter to him; so what if Cobblepot dies? That’s one less gangster in Gotham he has to worry about, one less obstacle in his path to clean up the city.

He can’t shake the voice in his head that whispers _Your fault_ , though. It _is_ his fault that Cobblepot’s in the grip of a serial killer. No one’s called Jim out on it, but Harvey has been giving him some pretty significant looks over the past few hours, and the Chief keeps glancing at him, too. Lee’s not asked any delicate questions as of yet, but he can tell she’s curious. She’s never actually met Cobblepot, doesn’t know anything about him, and Jim would like to keep it that way.

He can’t help but wonder, though. _Why_? Why had the Ogre taken Cobblepot, of all people? Jim had been so sure he’d go after Lee. Hell, even Barbara would have made more sense as a target.

He certainly doesn’t _love_ the criminal; he has no idea how the Ogre had gotten that idea in his head. He barely even tolerates Cobblepot, only continues their association because he has no other choice.

He refuses to think about Cobblepot’s continued insistence that they’re friends, refuses to think about how overjoyed the man always looks whenever Jim comes into his club, refuses to think about the Ogre’s victims, all strewn around Gotham with their throats cut and their chests littered with puncture wounds.

Except not thinking about it only makes Jim think about it _more_ , and his eyes keep straying to the photos of the victims. He keeps imagining Cobblepot dumped somewhere, blood soaking his expensive-looking suit, throat slit. He imagines what it would be like to find the gangster cold and bloody, knowing it was his fault that Cobblepot had ended up that way.

Jim groans, digs his knuckles into his eyes until he sees stars. He _can’t_ – can’t leave Cobblepot in the Ogre’s hands, can’t let him be killed because of Jim. He remembers the look on Gabe’s face when he’d come into the station, remembers Mrs. Kapelput and the way she’d fawned over her son every time Jim was at the club. Cobblepot had people that cared about him, and Jim couldn’t let him die on his account.

He gets to work.

//

A lead sends them to the Foxglove, a high-end brothel that took far too much time and persuasion to find and even more of the same to get into.

(Jim ignores the pang in his chest when he realizes that he would have gone to Cobblepot had the situation been reversed and someone else – someone like Lee or even Barbara – had been in the Ogre’s clutches instead.)

They haven’t found his body yet; Jim chooses to believe that that means Cobblepot’s still alive, though his stomach curdles when he imagines what state the gangster must be in. The Ogre kept his female victims pristine, save the stab wounds to their chest and throat when he killed them, but judging by the cry Jim had heard over the phone – a cry that had lodged itself in his ears and refused to leave him ever since – the same can’t be said for Cobblepot. There’s no telling what the Ogre has done to him.

Jim’s seen Cobblepot bruised, bloody, and bound. He’s also seen him indignant and afraid, seen him scheming, seen him celebrating another’s demise. He’s seen Cobblepot beating a man with a baseball bat, seen a darkness to the man that chills him to the bone when he thinks on it too much, but he’s also seen him begging for his life, begging Jim to spare him, and something bursts into life in the pit of his stomach, an instinct which he can’t name, but it sends him into the Foxglove with his fingers resting over his holster, threats of newspaper coverage giving them an in with the madam.

She gives them what they need; one of the workers is a former victim, shows them the scars on her face and tells them what she knows, leads them to a building across from the Gotham Royal Hotel. He and Harvey don’t bother waiting for backup, there’s no _time_ , and there’s violence surging under Jim’s skin as they arrive at the sprawling apartment, flashlights raised, guns at the ready.

It’s dark, and quiet, both of which set Jim’s teeth on edge. He and Harvey split up, and Jim scans the expansive living room, the kitchen with all of its chrome appliances, the bedroom and enormous bath. There’s nothing, until –

“Jim!”

Jim bursts into action, runs towards the sound of Harvey’s voice. He finds his partner downstairs, standing in an open doorway. Harvey’s got his hand over his mouth, looks disturbed, and Jim’s steps falter before he moves past him, stepping into the room.

He barely notices the various masks and whips, chains and all other manner of bonds hanging like bizarre tapestries on the walls; all Jim sees is the tiny figure strung up in the center of the room.

Cobblepot’s suspended by his wrists from the ceiling, his body slumped forward, head lowered so his chin’s nearly touching his chest. There’s a gag in his mouth, a blindfold covering his eyes.

“Shit,” Jim mutters, moving further into the room. He shuts his flashlight off, tucks it away, the fluorescent lights in the room rendering it pointless, but he keeps his gun out.

The closer he gets the worse Cobblepot looks; his suit jacket’s gone, his vest and shirt torn and rumpled. There’s blood staining his white undershirt, his suspenders dangling uselessly from his waistband, and his face – what little Jim can see of it between the gag and the blindfold – is pale and bloodied from a deep gash on his cheek.

He checks to make sure Harvey’s still by the door before he holsters his gun, pressing the tips of his fingers to Cobblepot’s neck and feeling for a pulse. He breathes a sigh of relief when he finds it; it’s slow, but it’s there, and he moves his hands to Cobblepot’s cheek, raising the gangster’s head so Jim can get a good look at him.

“Cobblepot?” He removes the blindfold, yanks the gag away with more force than necessary; saliva and blood stain Cobblepot’s lips, and his eyes are sunken, ringed in black like bruises. _Shit_. “Cobblepot. Oswald. Can you hear me?”

Cobblepot stirs, eyes fluttering, lips twisting. His wrists tug uselessly at his bonds, and Jim sets to work untying the thick leather straps. “J-Jim?” Cobblepot’s voice is barely a rasp; he squints at Jim through narrowed eyes, swallows roughly once or twice. “S’that you?”

“It’s me,” Jim says, wrapping an arm around Cobblepot’s waist as he releases the strap around his other wrist. The skin’s marred with bruises, deep and painful-looking, and Jim feels pity and something deeper fill his chest at the sight, something he hesitates to name but that reminds him of the protective instincts that have carried him throughout his career as a cop – the need to keep the city and its people safe, even, it seems, one of its criminals.

Cobblepot – Oswald – can’t stand on his own. Jim guides him gently to the floor, propping him up as best he can, and quickly checks him over. The gash on his cheek Is deep, still bleeding sluggishly. It’ll need stitches, as will the slash marks Jim can see criss-crossing Oswald’s chest, his shirt and vest slit open where the knife had cut into him.

Jim needs to get him to a hospital; Oswald’s too pale, his limbs trembling. He’s lost a lot of blood, is probably dehydrated as well, and something cold and heavy drops into Jim’s stomach when he realizes Oswald wouldn’t have lasted much longer if they hadn’t found him when they did.

A sound from the next room instantly sets him on high alert; he glances back to see Harvey with his gun raised, moving away from the door, and his shoulders stiffen as he waits, straining for any sounds of a scuffle.

A pained cry from Oswald diverts his attention away from the door. The gangster’s struggling to sit up, his eyes clenched shut as he presses a hand to the side of his face, over the gash. His fingers come away bloodied.

“Hey, hey,” Jim soothes, wrapping a hand around Oswald’s wrist and moving it back to his side. “Don’t move, okay? We’ll get you out of here, get you to a hospital. You’ll be okay.”

Oswald’s lips twitch into a semblance of a smile, his eyes opening a fraction to peer blearily at Jim. He really doesn’t look good, and Jim’s seen him roughed up more than once. It doesn’t give him any satisfaction, not even after that mess with Flass, and he knows then that he’s fucked, that his moral compass is beyond skewed if he’s actually worried about the well-being of one of Gotham’s criminals.

“I knew you’d find me, Jim Gordon,” Oswald wheezes, wincing a little as he shifts, and Jim’s protective instincts flare up all over again. _Fuck_.

“Stop talking,” Jim says gruffly, though it’s more for his benefit than Oswald’s. _Cobblepot_ , he reminds himself sternly. He reaches for the gangster, knowing he’ll have to carry him out, but a footstep outside the door stops him cold.

He turns just in time to avoid catching the point of a knife across his face, lunging forward to knock the Ogre down. He has a split second to worry about Harvey before the other man is up again, knife raised, and Jim goes for his gun, curses when Jason barrels toward him. They struggle, falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs, and Jim twists his body, tries to get Jason under him so he can pin the man down.

Jason goes for his throat with the knife, and Jim does the only thing he can think of, grabs the blade with the bare palm of his hand, a garbled shout filtering out between his teeth at the white hot pain. He ignores it, wrenches the knife from Jason’s hands, and within moments he’s on his feet with the knife skidding across the floor to the other side of the room and his gun raised.

He freezes at the sight that greets him; Jason’s scrambled over to Oswald’s side, has the gangster up on his feet and an arm around his throat.

“Step away, Detective,” Jason orders, and as Jim makes no move to obey, tightens his grip around Oswald’s throat. Oswald gasps, sucking in air, his eyelids fluttering as the oxygen leaches from his lungs.

“Let him go, Jason,” Jim barks, leveling his gun on the man’s face. Jason maneuvers Oswald until he’s ducked more or less behind the gangster, using him as a shield.

“That’s not how the game works,” the Ogre tsks, his grip tightening. Oswald chokes, blood and spittle speckling his lips, but his eyes are clear when he turns his gaze on Jim, holding eye contact even as Jason continues applying pressure to his windpipe.

“I-it’s okay, Jim,” Oswald croaks; blood drips into his eye, his lips a tight line, the Ogre’s forearm clamped tight around his throat. “It’s okay.” His eyes are sharp; he nods, once, and Jim understands.

He breathes out, lets his shoulders drop. He lowers his gun a fraction.

Oswald strikes, sinking his teeth into the Ogre’s forearm. Jason curses, tries to wrench his arm away, and the distraction is enough. Jim’s finger squeezes the trigger, the bullet striking Jason in the forehead, and he goes down like a ton of bricks, Oswald crumpling to the ground under his weight.

Jim holsters his gun with hands that shake; he ignores them, moves to Oswald’s side, shoves Jason’s limp body off of him.

“Hey, c’mon,” he says, turning Oswald’s face up toward him, smacking his cheek when the gangster makes no response. Oswald groans, eyelids fluttering, and something unfurls in Jim’s chest at the disgruntled look on his face.

“He ruined my best suit,” Oswald grumbles, the words garbled and hoarse but as indignant as he can manage in his state. It startles a laugh out of Jim, and he’s still trying to contain it when he hears Harvey at the door.

“Glad this is all a laughing matter to you, Jimbo,” he grunts, a rip in his jacket and a purpling bruise on his forehead.

“None the worse for wear, Harvey?” Jim asks, leaning down to pick Oswald up off the ground. The gangster slumps against his side, his arm hooked over Jim’s neck, and Jim slips an arm around his waist and hitches him up until he’s more or less carrying the other man.

“I’ve had worse,” Harvey says, glancing at the prone form of the Ogre on the ground. “I called for backup and a bus. They’ll be here in five.”

“Good.” Oswald’s head lolls onto Jim’s shoulder, his eyes closed. His breathing’s deep and even; Jim can feel it against his neck, and he valiantly ignores the way it makes him feel, a shiver traveling up and down his spine that has nothing to do with the chill in the room. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”


End file.
